Maurice was feeling, with curious little movements, almost like a cat
kneading her bed, for his place, his knife and fork, his napkin. He was
getting the whole geography of his cover into his consciousness. He sat
erect and inscrutable, remote-seeming Bertie watched the static figure of
the blind man, the delicate tactile discernment of the large, ruddy
hands, and the curious mindless silence of the brow, above the scar. With
difficulty he looked away, and without knowing what he did, picked up a
little crystal bowl of violets from the table, and held them to his nose.

'They are sweet-scented,' he said. 'Where do they come from?'

'From the garden--under the windows,' said Isabel.

'So late in the year--and so fragrant! Do you remember the violets under
Aunt Bell's south wall?'

The two friends looked at each other and exchanged a smile, Isabel's eyes
lighting up.

'Don't I?' she replied. '_Wasn't_ she queer!'

'A curious old girl,' laughed Bertie. 'There's a streak of freakishness
in the family, Isabel.'

'Ah--but not in you and me, Bertie,' said Isabel. 'Give them to Maurice,
will you?' she added, as Bertie was putting down the flowers. 'Have you
smelled the violets, dear? Do!--they are so scented.'

Maurice held out his hand, and Bertie placed the tiny bowl against his